


The Blotched Soldier

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4670234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing Danny, Clara's trying to live a quiet life and improve Courtney's education. Then a woman who seems to recognise her materialises in her classroom, and things get a whole lot less predictable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Detention

Clara neatly collated the sheets of Ravi Singh's essay, placed them on the 'marked' pile, and looked up to check that Courtney hadn't sneaked out while her attention was distracted. To her relief, she found that her number one troublemaker did seem to be taking her detention seriously — that was, as seriously as she ever did. By the look of things, the second edition of Courtney's essay on Albert Camus' _The Outsider_ was coming along nicely, at least as regarded length. As to its content, Clara held out no great hopes. 

A few short weeks ago, Clara would have been aching for the end of the detention, with an intensity none of her pupils could have hoped to match. She'd have been looking forward to a night of passion with Danny, an adventure with the Doctor, or (on one memorably hectic night) both. But now Danny was dead, and she'd parted from the Doctor with a lie. Now she might as well be taking charge of detention as anything else. At least by doing this she was improving Courtney's education — albeit by a tiny, scarcely measurable amount. 

Scarcely had Clara taken another essay from the 'to be marked' pile, than Courtney had raised her hand. Clara replaced the essay, and wondered what excuse Courtney had come up with this time. 

"Yes, Courtney?" she said. 

"Miss, I'm feeling funny." 

Clara was familiar with Courtney's ability to come up with vague but somehow alarming symptoms whenever it suited her; it left the merely hypochondriac far behind. Clara vaguely recalled a news report on the development of a supercomputer to diagnose illnesses, and wondered how it would cope with Courtney's inventive skills in that area. 

"How do you mean, funny?" she said out loud. 

"Like someone's playing tunes on my teeth, miss." 

Clara opened her mouth to tell Courtney not to be so ridiculous, closed it again, and put one hand to her cheek. 

"It's not just you," she said, her voice sounding thick in her own ears. If the jangling sensation in her mouth was anything like what Courtney was experiencing, the girl had every reason to complain. "Maybe there's something the matter with the—" 

She had risen as she spoke, but fell back into her chair; trying to stand made her whole head ring, and the room spin about her. Courtney was slumped forward over her desk, one hand clutching her stomach and the other over her mouth. The air in the room seemed to thicken until it resembled translucent gel, filled with strange flecks of purple and yellow. Above and just to the front of Clara's desk, empty space bulged into a glittering bubble. Clara watched, equally fascinated and giddy, as the bubble drifted slowly downward, touched the floor, and burst— 

And the room instantly returned to utter normality, in nearly every particular. Clara was still at her desk; Courtney was at hers, looking no more than mildly queasy; the rest of the classroom was almost exactly as it had been a minute before. There was one important difference, though. In front of Clara's desk, where the bubble had burst, was a gunmetal-grey cuboid, perhaps eight feet long, two feet wide, and two feet high, uncompromisingly solid. 

In seconds Clara was on her feet, bending over the cuboid. No more than two further seconds later, Courtney was beside her, all thoughts of nausea forgotten. Before Clara could think of warning her not to touch, Courtney had already run her finger over a stencilled marking. 

"It's in English, miss," she said, turning her head sideways to read the words. "'MedEvac Mark Three. Unauthorised use prohibited.'" 

"Don't touch it," Clara said. She knew she was shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted, but that was better than nothing. "It could be a bomb or anything." 

"Doesn't say 'bomb,'" Courtney countered. 

Clara took a deep breath. "Courtney, go back to your desk and get on with your essay. Now!" 

"Suit yourself," Courtney muttered, and returned to her desk projecting an aura of sulkiness almost strong enough to dim the lights. 

Remaining beside the cuboid, Clara examined it closely. There were a few more stencilled markings, with helpful directions such as 'This side up.' Other than that, the grey surface at first appeared to be uniform, until Clara made her way to the other end of the cuboid. On this end, a black panel displayed a number of illuminated graphs, each labelled with incomprehensible abbreviations. One of them was pulsing regularly, about once every second. Another showed a bar graph, in which most of the bars were solid green, but a few had a tiny, shrinking band of red at the top. 

"MedEvac," Clara repeated to herself. Combined with the graphs, she got the impression that this object's purpose was medical: some kind of battlefield ambulance, perhaps. Or it could be a bomb disguised as a battlefield ambulance, in which case she ought to get Courtney out of the danger area in double-quick time. If that was possible; for all she knew, the explosion might flatten London. 

Before she could make up her mind, the last fragments of red turned to green. The graph flashed twice, then winked out. At the same moment, with a whirr, the top of the cuboid split down the middle. The two halves slid apart. A smell, as of a humid tropical greenhouse in summer, diffused out into the room. 

Once again, Courtney hurried to Clara's side. Together they gazed down into what, it was becoming clear, was a tank of green-tinted liquid, large enough to hold a person. At first glimpse it appeared to be full of some kind of foam packing material, neatly arranged in blocks; then, through the gaps between the blocks, Clara made out the outline of a human figure, held firmly in place by the foam. 

"Looks like a shop dummy," Courtney suggested. "Let's have a look at it." 

She leaned forward. At the same moment, the figure in the tank sat up, scattering the blocks and sending a quantity of green liquid onto the floor. She was, or appeared to be, a caucasian woman, perhaps a couple of years younger than Clara, wearing a silver one-piece bathing suit. Her hair was bleached, growing out dark at the roots. Of her face, little could be seen; a breathing mask covered her nose and mouth, and a bandage was tied across her eyes. 

"Hey!" Courtney jumped back. "It's alive!" 

The woman removed her mask, then carefully unwrapped the bandage. Behind it, her eyes were green — the irises a brilliant, vivid emerald, the whites more of a pastel hue. She held up one hand in front of her face, moved it closer to her, then further away. 

"Depth perception," she said. "There've been times I really missed that." 

She lowered her hand, and seemed to notice for the first time that there were two people looking at her. 

"Where the hell is this?" she asked, looking around. "And—" She caught sight of Clara, and her luridly green eyes widened with sudden recognition. "Clarissa! What are you doing here?" 

"Do you mean me?" Clara shook her head. "That isn't my name." 

"You're sure?" The woman rose to her feet, green liquid cascading from her. Her legs were bandaged, as her eyes had been; she began to unwrap them. "I could swear it was you." 

"Maybe it was. Sort of. Or not quite me, but..." Clara gave up that sentence as a bad job. "Where did you meet this Clarissa?" 

"1813. At a country house. And you still haven't told me where this place is. Or when." 

"It's 2014," Courtney said, holding up her mobile phone by way of proof. "And this horrible dump's Coal Hill School." 

The newcomer nodded, but her eyes were still fixed on Clara. "Maybe it's some weird family resemblance, then. Or... you're not a time traveller, are you?" 

"Yeah, she is," Courtney said. 

Clara shook her head. "I think I know what's happened, and it's more complicated than just time travel. It'll take too long to explain right now." _She must have met one of my fragments_ , she added privately. _That means she's probably met the Doctor, too. Maybe travelled with him._

"Who are you?" she asked out loud. 

"Canon Lucianus of the Octavian Chapter. But you can call me Lucie. So if you're not Clarissa, who are you?" 

"Clara. Clara Oswald." Clara searched her memory. Lucie's name held a vague association for her, though she couldn't place it. 

"I'm Courtney," Courtney said. She proudly added "I'm in detention." 

Lucie looked around the classroom. "Bet you didn't expect me to show up, then," she said. "Not sure I did, come to that. What are you in for?" 

"'Cos Miss Oswald said my essay was taking the piss and I had to do it again." 

"I did not say that!" Clara interjected. 

"But I bet you meant it," Lucie said. She turned to Courtney. "What's your essay about, then?" 

" _The Outsider_. It's about this bloke who..." 

"Shoots a man because he had the sun in his eyes, right?" Lucie broke in. "I had to read that for GCSE. You should've seen my essay." She turned back to Clara. "But you probably shouldn't." 

Clara held up her hands. "Could we postpone the symposium? We need to get this mess cleared up. And dry you off; we can't leave you soaking wet. Courtney, go and see what you can find." 

"Onto it," Courtney said, and ambled towards the door at a leisurely pace. 

"You're just like Clarissa," Lucie said. "She was a bossy— she was bossy, too. Except when she was coming on to me." 

"Can we _not_ go there?" Clara asked. It wasn't so much the idea that a temporal echo of her had been flirting with other women. Green eyes or not, Lucie was attractive, and in other circumstances, Clara might have been inclined to pick up where 'Clarissa' had left off. But she didn't care to have such matters discussed in Courtney's earshot. Had she been inclined to bet, Clara would have given evens that when she arrived at school on Monday, she would be confronted by graffiti along the lines of OZZIE IS A LEZZIE. 

"She'll get you some towels," Clara went on, trying to speak with the confidence of one laying out what must now inevitably happen. "Can you look after her when she comes back? I need to go out and get some clothes for you." 

"Clothes?" Lucie repeated. "At this time of night?" 

Clara's expression was, perhaps, a little more confident than she actually felt. "Don't worry. This is Shoreditch. We have pop-up vintage clothes boutiques like other boroughs have rats." 

⁂

On leaving the school, Clara had intended to head for the High Street in search of clothes, but she hadn't even had to go that far. There had been a van parked outside Foreman's Yard, staffed by three harried-looking men dressed in cheap business suits. Clara might have suspected them of illegal activity, had it not been for the camera crew filming the scene. Even better, their stock had included second-hand clothing. By the look of it, it was the clothing every other pop-up shop in Shoreditch had rejected, but time was of the essence and the garments, horrible though they were, had at least been relatively cheap. 

Returning with her purchases, she pushed the door open to see Courtney sitting at her desk with rolled-up sleeves, apparently putting the finishing touches to her essay. Lucie, now more or less dry but still in her swimsuit, was lounging in Clara's chair with her bare feet on Clara's desk. Now that Lucie was dry, Clara couldn't help noticing that her legs were mottled with patches of green skin. There were a few similar patches on her arms, and a single dot on the lobe of each ear. 

"Back already?" she said, as Clara walked in. 

"Told you it wouldn't take long," Clara said. Taking a closer look at the room, she noted that someone, most likely Courtney, had been mopping up the patches of floor where the green liquid had splashed. The classroom looked almost normal, except for the huge metallic box in which Lucie had arrived. And except for the presence of Lucie herself, of course. 

"Told you we keep getting pop-up shops popping up all over the place," Clara went on. "I think this time it may have been for _The Apprentice_ — they had people filming it all." 

"Is that still on?" Lucie asked. 

"The Doctor never misses— missed," Clara corrected herself, realising the present tense was no longer applicable. "He never missed an episode." 

"Missed?" Lucie was on her feet, and hurrying across to Clara. "Has something happened to him?" 

Clara shook her head. "No. I just... don't travel with him any more." 

"I tried that once. Didn't stick." Lucie rummaged in the bag, and pulled out a blue and red floral dress. "What the fudge is this thing supposed to be?" 

"Vintage and/or retro chic." 

"You mean seventies tat," Lucie countered. "Genuine Laura Ashley. S'pose it'll have to do, anyway." 

She tipped the bag out, and began to dress. Courtney, meanwhile, put the cap back on her pen, shuffled the pages of her essay into a rough heap, and raised her hand. 

"Finished, miss," she said, as soon as Clara made eye contact with her. 

"Let me see." Clara crossed to the desk and glanced through Courtney's essay. It seemed to meet the minimum standards required, as regarded word count and legibility, though she didn't dare engage with the content. "You'd better get along home." 

"Yes, miss," Courtney said, shoving book, paper and writing implements into her backpack. "Good night, miss. See you round, Lucie." 

"Good night." Clara waited until Courtney had left, closed the door behind her, and let out a long breath. "Maybe we can talk, now." 

"Depends if you've got anything worth saying," Lucie said, perching on the corner of Clara's desk. 

"You turned up in my detention in a tank of green stuff. If you've got an explanation I'd be interested to hear it." 

"Not sure I have." Lucie paused in thought. "Well, the green stuff's some sort of symbiotic goo. Grows replacement body parts." 

The implication was obvious. "You mean you lost your _eyes_?" 

"One of them. They said it'd be better if I had both done at the same time. Like changing the bulbs in your brake lights." 

"That is not an analogy I ever thought I'd hear." Clara, who was pacing up and down, paused by the tank and took another look at it. "'MedEvac.' Medical Evacuation? Where were you being evacuated from?" 

"Space station in orbit around Mimas. No-one said anything about evacuation when they stuck me in the tank. Archdeacon Grishenko said everything was normal. S'pose someone attacked them while I was out of things." 

"And this Octavian Chapter... is it anything to do with the Papal Mainframe?" 

With a gesture of dismissal, Lucie jumped off the desk. "Never you mind," she said. "My turn to ask something now. Is there anywhere I can get a meal? 'Cos I'm starving." 

"I know a couple of places." Clara began to pack her own bag. "What about the pod? You can't just leave it in my classroom and stroll off." 

Lucie gave her a superior grin. "I think you'll find I can." 

She walked casually out of the door, closing it behind her. A moment later, she opened it again. 

"OK," she said. "Which way's out?" 

Clara zipped up her shoulder bag. "Tell you what," she said. "You get rid of that pod, and I'll buy you dinner." 

"Best offer I've had in months," Lucie said, coming back into the room. "OK. I'll give it my best shot." 

⁂

Though Lucie hadn't been able to make the pod disappear altogether, she had managed to activate some kind of built-in antigrav system, which had made it light enough for her and Clara to carry. Between them, they had manoeuvred it into the basement, and concealed it as best they could in a boiler room that was hopefully as disused as it looked. 

After that, Clara had had no choice but to keep up her end of the bargain, and had taken Lucie to a nearby restaurant. It had been one that she and Danny had sometimes visited, and as she walked through the doors, she'd briefly been convinced that he would be waiting there for her, and nearly lost her composure. Not that Lucie seemed to have noticed; she'd been too busy complaining that the symbiotic goo had healed her ear piercings, so she couldn't wear her favourite earrings any more. To add to the general awkwardness of the evening, the waiter serving their table seemed to have formed the conviction that the two were dating, or possibly an actual couple. 

During the meal, Lucie had been more interested in eating than talking, so Clara had tried to explain how Clarissa, and the hundreds of other echoes spread across time and space, had come to be. 

"I keep thinking I've seen you somewhere before," Clara said, once they'd reached the point of dessert. 

Lucie looked up briefly, fixing her with those unsettling green eyes. "Is that because you met me when you were Clarissa?" 

"No. I think it's before that, before I met the Doctor. When I was a girl up in Blackpool." 

"That's where I come from, too," Lucie said. "But Blackpool's a big place. I don't think I was at school with you." 

"Maybe I saw you on the bus or something, then." 

Lucie spread her hands. "Maybe." 

"By the way," Clara said. "Have you got anywhere to go? I mean, friends or family or anything like that?" 

"Not round here." Lucie paused in thought. "Except maybe Amanda. I was gonna share a flat with her when I moved to London... that was years ago. I've no idea where she lives now. And if she saw me like I am now, she'd freak out." 

"D'you want to come back to my flat, then?" Clara asked. 

"Why not? I've been in worse places." 

"You don't know how bad my flat is." 

"I've been in worse places," Lucie repeated, with an air of utter certainty. "By the way, you know the way you looked at me just then?" 

"What about how I looked?" 

"It's just how Clarissa looked when she was trying to get in my knickers." 

"This isn't a _date!_ " Clara protested. 

"You've taken me out to dinner and now you're asking me back to your place," Lucie pointed out. "Sounds like a date to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who've read Sir Terry Pratchett's The Dark Side of the Sun may recognise the 'symbiotic goo' that Lucie was treated with.


	2. General Science

The following day being a Saturday, Clara had originally planned to spend the morning catching up with her marking. Lucie's unscheduled arrival had spelt an end to that plan; when Clara finally fell asleep late on the Friday night, she'd resolved that her Saturday would have to be spent getting Lucie properly sorted out — not that she was at all clear what 'sorted out' might entail. 

Even this revised plan went out of the window, when Clara was woken at seven by the sound of her mobile telephone. Blearily, she snatched up the instrument and answered it. 

"Miss Oswald?" a dry, official voice asked. It wasn't anybody Clara knew, she was sure. 

"Yes." Clara felt a vague sensation of unease. "Who is this?" 

"This is the Royal London Hospital," the voice replied. 

Clara sat up, all thought of sleep instantly banished. 

"Last night a young woman by the name of Courtney Woods was admitted with superficial injuries, which by her account she received in a mugging. She was kept in overnight as a precaution. This morning she's been asking to speak to you — and someone called..." There was a rustle of papers. "... Canon Lucie?" 

"I know who she means. When should we come?" 

"Visiting hours are ten till twelve. You won't be able to see her until the police have taken her statement, so perhaps about eleven?" 

"Right. Thanks for letting me know. Is there anything else?" 

Apparently, there wasn't, and the call duly concluded. With a groan, Clara got out of bed, pulled on a bathrobe, and made for her living room, where Lucie was sound asleep on the sofa, wearing one of Clara's old T-shirts in lieu of pyjamas. 

"Hey!" she said, shaking Lucie. "Wake up!" 

Lucie opened one eye. "Wha'?" 

"Courtney's in hospital, and she wants to see us." 

"In hospital?" Lucie opened both her eyes fully. "Is she all right? What happened?" 

"She was mugged, apparently. Anyway, we need to be there by eleven." 

Lucie glanced across at the clock, which was reading thirteen minutes past seven. "Is it gonna take us hours to get there?" 

"No. It's quite close." 

"Then what did you want to wake me up now for, you daft dollop?" 

"I thought you ought to know. That's all." 

Lucie's only response was to make a rude noise, close her eyes, and compose herself for sleep once more. 

⁂

Clara and Lucie had arrived at the hospital in good time, but this had simply meant a long, frustrating wait while first the police, then her parents, had been admitted to the room where Courtney was recovering. Courtney's mother had then spotted Clara on the way out, and decided to inquire — in the tones of one hoping against hope — whether her daughter's work was showing any sign of improvement. It had taken all Clara's reserves of patience to answer the questions sensibly, and by the time she and Lucie were standing by Courtney's bed, Clara felt ready to explode. 

"Morning, miss," Courtney said. She had a dressing on her forehead, and another on her arm, but otherwise seemed in reasonable health. "Thanks for coming, Lucie." 

"What happened?" Clara asked. 

Courtney sounded as if she was trying to minimise the whole affair. "Just the usual. I was walking to the bus stop when a couple of guys grabbed me. They shoved me up against a wall and went through my pockets." 

"Did you see who it was?" 

"I didn't see their faces. Anyway, I tried to get home but my head was really hurting, and a woman took me here." 

"Fair enough," Lucie said. "So why'd you want to see us?" 

The normally voluble Courtney seemed to be having a little difficulty finding the right words. "You know when I found your earrings?" she eventually said. 

"Yeah?" 

"Well, I found something else. OnlyIkeptit." The words tumbled out in a rush. "And when I was mugged it got nicked too." 

Lucie fixed Courtney with her best green-eyed glare. "So what was it you kept?" 

"A necklace. Didn't really look at it, just put it in my pocket before you noticed." She gazed pleadingly up at Lucie. "I'm really sorry." 

"You've done the right thing to confess," Clara said encouragingly. 

Lucie gave a sympathetic nod. "'Fraid I can't give you absolution. I'm not that sort of canon." 

⁂

"What sort of canon are you, in fact?" Clara asked, as the two walked down the hospital steps. 

"The sort that blows things up, I reckon," Lucie said. "The Octavian Chapter's not really about going through people's sins with a magnifying glass. We're more a sort of holy army. Fighting demons and that kind of thing." 

"Demons?" 

"Or Daleks. Not much to choose between 'em." 

Clara gave Lucie a sideways glance. "Does that make you a nun with a gun?" 

"I'm not a nun and I haven't got a gun. But apart from that, you're more or less right." 

"You don't have to swear an oath of chastity, then?" 

"No. Why?" 

"Just wondering," Clara said breezily. "It'll help me formulate my future plans." 

"You'd better be careful I don't swear an oath of something else at you if you carry on like that." Lucie took a deep breath. "Anyway, I think we're in trouble." 

"What sort of trouble?" 

"Not sure, but look at it like this. We reckon the Chapter evacuated me because the station was under attack, right? So if they stuck that necklace in the pod, it's something they don't want the enemy to get their hands on. Or plungers, depending." 

"And now someone has got their hands on it. How did she find it?" 

"I was getting dried off with those paper towels, and she was poking about in the pod. I saw she'd got something, and asked what it was. It was one of my earrings. So I asked her if she could find the other. Fat lot of good they turned out to be. I can't even wear 'em. Anyway, she must've palmed the necklace while she was finding the other earring." 

"Yes, but hang on a moment." Clara gripped Lucie's arm. "They sent you here without anything. No gun, no clothes, no nothing." 

"'Carry neither purse, nor scrip, nor shoes: and salute no man by the way,'" Lucie said. "Luke, chapter ten, verse 4." 

"Fair enough." Vow of chastity or not, whatever strange religious order Lucie belonged to seemed to have some kind of vow of poverty. "But why did they give you the earrings, then?" 

"Because..." Lucie paused in thought. "Actually, that's a bloody good point. We need to take a look at those earrings." 

"Where are they now?" 

"Somewhere in your flat, I suppose. We'd better get back there now." 

⁂

"They look normal," Lucie said, turning the earrings over in her hands. To all appearances, they were just two simple silver hoops, a couple of inches in diameter. "Maybe if you put 'em on?" 

Clara removed one of her own ear studs, and, slowly and carefully, hooked one of the hoops into position. It didn't seem to have any particular effect. 

"Feel anything?" Lucie asked. 

"No." 

"Try the other one." 

Clara clipped the second hoop into place, with no more effect. "Doesn't do anything," she announced. 

"They look pretty good on you." 

"Not really my style," Clara said, checking her appearance in the mirror. 

Lucie tutted. "Time you changed your style, then." 

"We're getting off the subject." Clara reached up and touched one of the rings. "Did these feel cold when you wore them?" 

"Not really. Why?" 

"They do to me." Clara unclipped an earring and held it between her hands. "It's not warming up at all." 

"Let's have one." Lucie took the hoop that Clara passed to her. "You're right, they weren't this cold." 

"I suppose we'd better do some experiments, then. See if we can warm them up." 

"I left that science stuff to the Doctor." Lucie looked down at the hoop in her hands. "How come he's never around when you need him?" 

"We don't need him," Clara said firmly. "This is something we can do ourselves." 

⁂

At the end of half an hour, Clara's tidy kitchen had become a disordered microcosm of the TARDIS laboratory. One worktop contained the disembowelled remains of Clara's mobile phone charger; another held a variety of cooking vessels. 

It had quickly become apparent that nothing in the kitchen could heat the earrings in the slightest; dropping one into boiling water would consistently reduce the water to a temperature of 10 degrees celsius (as measured by Clara's cooking thermometer) within a minute, even with the gas at maximum power. The oven had had no more effect. Both earrings appeared to be identical, in as much as they behaved in the same physics-defying manner. 

"Hey," Lucie said, as they fished one of the earrings out of the water after another test run. She turned the earring this way and that. "Looks almost like it's glowing, doesn't it?" 

Clara peered at the earring, and was forced to agree. A gleam on the circumference was certainly not reflected light; it shone even when the ring was placed in shadow. 

"We keep heating it up and it doesn't get any hotter," she said. "Maybe it's using that energy for something?" 

"Let's try it with the phone charger again," Lucie suggested. 

A few moments later, the charger was connected to the ring by a few crude twists of wire, and Clara was standing by at the socket. She pushed the switch down, half expecting to black out the flat, or the building, or London. But nothing happened, except the gleam brightened a little. 

"I wonder what'd happen if we plug it straight into the mains," Lucie said. "Not just a measly charger." 

"Do you want to blow this place up?" 

"Suit yourself, then." Lucie gave the earring another look. "What's it doing now?" 

Something that looked like smoke, except that it was yellow and glowing, was rising from the inner circumference of the earring. 

"Looks like vortex energy," Clara said. "I saw it before. When the Doctor was regenerating." 

"Tell you what. Let's put something in the circle and see what happens." 

Clara looked around for something small enough, opened the fridge, and extracted a box of eggs, the latest consignment of supplies for Operation Soufflé. Placing the box on the worktop, she took one egg and carefully placed it in the circle outlined by the earring. Swirls of vortex energy drifted around it. 

Nothing obvious happened. 

"That's a let-down," Lucie said, after they'd spent a full minute studiously observing the egg doing nothing at all. "I was hoping it'd turn into a chicken or something." 

"Maybe it is, but so slowly we don't notice." Clara returned the egg to its box, opened a drawer, and pulled out a clockwork timer. "Try this." 

They wound the timer up, set it in the circle, and watched it. At first they could see no difference in its behaviour, but by the time thirty seconds had passed, the timer had only counted twenty-eight. 

"It's slowing time down," Clara said. "Just a little bit." 

"Right. So let's see what it does with mains voltage, not a wimpy charger." 

Clara sighed. "I suppose we'd better try it, Doctor Frankenstein." 

Within a minute, Lucie had commandeered the kettle, cut the end off its lead, stripped the wires with Clara's best kitchen scissors, and hooked them up to the earring. 

"Here goes," she said, and threw the switch. 

The effect was immediate. Instead of vague wisps of energy, a strong golden halo surrounded the earring. The timer, when placed upon the ring, shuddered almost to a halt, counting one second for every twenty-five in the world outside. 

"OK," Lucie said. "The earrings slow down time. How does that help?" 

"We don't know that's all they do. Maybe what we're doing is the equivalent of cavemen pushing a car around by hand and deciding it's just a fancy cart. Who knows what these things are designed to do? And then there's the necklace, of course. Maybe they work together somehow." 

"Maybe." Lucie had been looking at Clara; now, she turned back to the worktop and caught Clara by the hand. "Hang on, what's happening now?" 

The timer seemed to be vibrating, as if being shaken up and down by some force nobody could see. Either its shape was distorting, or it was surrounded by a very localised heat haze. The other items on the worktop — the screwdriver, the scissors, the box of eggs — were slowly drifting towards the golden, shimmering glow that surrounded the earring. 

"Switch it off!" Clara said. 

Lucie lost no time in obeying; she dived for the switch, and snapped it to the 'off' position. The haze around the earring wavered, and then winked out, to the accompaniment of a wave of pressure that rolled across the kitchen and caused Lucie's and Clara's ears to pop. A dozen eggs exploded in unison, splattering kitchen and experimenters with yolk, albumen and eggshell. 

"Correction," Lucie said, raising a hand to her hair and grimacing at the way the strands stuck to her fingers. "These stupid rings slow time down _and_ they can explode eggs at a range of at least one foot." 

Clara was holding her arms away from her body, with a slightly numbed expression. "Shower?" she suggested. 

Lucie nodded. "Shower."


	3. Geography

Following a shower and a change of clothes, Lucie and Clara, at the latter's insistence, spent the best part of the next hour cleaning every surface in the kitchen. 

"What d'you want a dozen eggs for, anyway?" Lucie asked, as she finally wrung out the cloth she'd been using. "D'you eat three omelettes a day or something?" 

"Soufflés," Clara said. 

"OK, soufflés, then. Are you a secret soufflé addict?" 

"I haven't really got to that point yet." Clara, to her chagrin, realised she was blushing. "I'm still practising how to make them." 

Lucie seemed unconvinced. "Can't be that hard, can it?" 

"It is when I try." Clara wrung out her own cloth. "Right. Where were we with those rings?" 

The two bent over the earrings. Disconnected from any source of power, they were reassuringly inert, except for a dot of light on the circumference of each. 

"Look," Lucie said, turning one of the rings around. "It always points the same way." She pointed at one of the walls. "That way." 

Clara picked up the other earring. "This one's the same. Do you think they're detecting something?" 

"One way to find out, isn't there?" 

"All right." Clara set down her earring. "You lead the way." 

Their progress through the streets of Shoreditch was slow; in full daylight the illuminated dot on the earring was hard to make out, and the direction it was pointing was never the same as any actual street. In general, their path led them in an easterly direction, away from the fashionable, gentrified parts of the district and into less desirable regions. Presently, the ring brought them to a hoarding, plastered with notices advising passers-by how they could reserve a property in this exclusive new development — and that in the meantime, unauthorised access was strictly forbidden. 

"It's either in there, or it's on the other side of it," Lucie said. 

They walked around the block, taking frequent readings, and confirmed that whatever the dot was pointing at, it was definitely within the building site. They came to a halt before a padlocked gate. 

"Now what?" Clara wondered. 

"Get in there, of course," Lucie said. "Give us a bunk-up." 

Clara bent down. Lucie clambered onto her shoulders, and thence to the top of the hoarding. 

"Hang on," she said, and jumped down on the inside. There was the distant thud of her landing, then retreating footsteps. A few moments later, the footsteps returned, and the end of a rope was thrown over the hoarding. Clara looked around guiltily, as if to check that none of her pupils could see the terrible example she was setting, hauled herself up with the rope, and clambered over the hoarding in turn. She jumped down, landing beside Lucie on compacted earth. 

"Somewhere over here," Lucie whispered, pointing. 

It was plain that the building was still in the earliest stages of construction; trenches had been gouged in the earth and filled with concrete, but there was no sign of any development above ground. Piles of earth or rubble, with reinforcing rods protruding here and there, turned the area into a dangerous maze, and now and again they found themselves having to splash through turbid puddles that, to look at, might have been any depth, and concealed who knew what hazards. 

"Did you hear that?," a man's voice said, just the other side of a particularly large heap of clay. "Someone's coming." 

Lucie and Clara froze in their places. Then Lucie dropped to her hands and knees, and began to crawl up the spoil heap. Clara followed suit, and was soon beside her. Together, they peered cautiously over the ridge at the top, and then flattened themselves against the surface of the heap. 

On the far side of the heap was an open space, where it looked as if the work on the foundations was currently in progress; here, some trenches were empty, and some contained webworks of reinforcing bars. Just below the heap, were two men, dressed in an opulently casual manner, and with bulges in their pockets that suggested concealed weapons. 

_Well, we've found the muggers_ , Clara thought. _Or their bosses, maybe. Now what?_ The Doctor, she supposed, would have wandered cheerfully up to them, bamboozled them in seconds, and walked away with the necklace before they'd realised what was happening. But then, if the Doctor stopped a bullet, he at least stood a chance of regenerating; she and Lucie certainly didn't. And leaving quietly didn't seem to be much of an option, either. Even if they could get back to the entrance, they couldn't hope to climb over the hoarding undetected. It looked as if the only option was to remain as still as possible, and try to ignore the irritating sensations of grit against her bare legs. 

"I can't hear anyone," the other man said. "You sure?" 

"Thought I did..." The first man shook his head. "Must have been a seagull or something." 

"He's not due till three." The second man glanced at his watch. "What d'you want to bring us here so early for, anyway?" 

"Didn't know if we'd have trouble getting in, did I? And you can't trust that bas—" 

He broke off, at the sound of a footstep. At the same moment, a red dot appeared on his chest. He looked down, then at his colleague, to see a similar red dot. 

"Now he's here," he said. "Or close." 

More footsteps, and a woman came into view, picking her way between the trenches. She was dark-haired, dressed in a smart business suit. A Bluetooth earpiece was clipped to her left ear. 

"Do you have. The goods." she said. Her voice sounded thin and frightened, and she paused now and again, as if listening for instructions. 

One of the men stepped forward. "Yes, sir," he said. 

"I am to take. Them." She paused again, then timidly raised a hand. 

Slowly and carefully, the man reached into his pocket and drew out a silver necklace. From where Clara and Lucie were breathlessly watching, it wasn't possible to make out anything about it except that it had some kind of pendant attached. Still moving slowly, the man let it fall into the woman's hand. Instantly, she seemed to relax. 

"Thanks, boys," she said, the fear dropping from her voice. "Next time you see Dicky Brook, give him my love, and tell him he needs to come up with some new tricks. You really thought he was here, and all it took was a couple of laser pointers and an earpiece. Here — catch!" 

Something which Clara thought she recognised as a brightly-coloured model cat spun through the air. Instinctively, the two men turned to follow its flight; as they did so, the woman disappeared behind another heap of rubble. With a series of sharp detonations, the building site filled with choking clouds of dust and smoke. 

Clara tugged at Lucie, and the two let themselves slide back down behind the cover of the spoil heap. 

"We've got to get out of here," she hissed. 

Lucie looked as if she might have been inclined to argue, but the sound of gunshots from the other side of the heap seemed to make her mind up. Clara caught her hand, and they stumbled through the smoke, trying to find their way back to the exit. 

A hand patted Clara on the shoulder, and she bit back a scream. 

"Nice try, kids," the woman's voice said. "Pity there's no prizes for second place. But I'm sure you'll still treasure this day anyway — not many people get to see Lady Christina de Souza at work." 

She vanished into the choking clouds. 

"Tosser," Lucie muttered, as they hurried on through swirling dust, murk and ankle-deep water. 

⁂

"Well, so much for that," Lucie said. By the sound of things, she was in high dudgeon, and Clara couldn't really blame her for it. Their expedition to the building site had accomplished nothing, and by the time they had managed to make their escape it was obvious that Lady Christina was long gone. Lucie's earring still showed its faint glimmer, but from its rapid changes of direction, it was obvious that Lady Christina was making a quick getaway, and following her would be a waste of time. There had been nothing to do but put several streets between them and the building site, as fast as they could. This had eventually brought them to somewhere Clara recognised: the eastern end of Padbury Court, where they were now catching their breath and trying to tidy themselves up as best they could. 

"Should've known it wouldn't work," Lucie went on. "I'm just bad luck." 

Clara shook her head. "Don't say that." 

"It's true," Lucie said firmly. "Any time I make friends with anyone they end up dead. Or turned into Cybermen or whatever. I thought maybe it was 'cos I was travelling with the Doctor, but it happened just the same when I was on my own. You don't want to stick around with me, Clara. It'll kill you, one way or the other." 

"I don't care if I do," Clara said. "My boyfriend... he'd still be alive if he hadn't met me. Or if I hadn't met the Doctor. So if you're worried about bad luck, it's you who needs to keep away." 

"If you feel like that, how come you keep flirting with me all the time?" 

"That's to try and cheer you up. Or cheer me up. Or both. Does it bother you?" 

"I'll take what I can get," Lucie said. "You'd just better mean it, that's all. Or I'll give you what for." 

"Sounds like fun." Clara turned to face Lucie, and lost the thread of her thoughts. "Hang on. You've got something on your cheek." 

Steadying Lucie's chin with her left hand, she leaned in close and wiped at the smear of dirt with her right. Lucie's eyes seemed brighter than ever against her grimy face, and Clara was suddenly seized by an impulse to hug her and tell her it would all be all right. And then kiss her. 

Instead, she drew back, and said "That's better. Not _good_ , but better. How do I look?" 

Lucie gave a faint smile. "Mucky." 

"Same as you, then." Clara brushed ineffectually at a smear of clay on her blouse. "Good job it hasn't rained for a week, or we'd be a complete mess." 

"Instead of being _in_ a complete mess," Lucie said morosely. 

"OK, we've had a bit of a setback," Clara admitted. "But as long as you've got that earring we can still track the necklace, can't we? We just wait until it stops moving." 

"Yeah, and then it'll be in that evil cow's safe. Or her bank." Lucie set out down the street at a brisk walk, still scowling. They had nearly reached the far end before she added "She was laughing at us." 

"Don't let her get to you. It's just words. That's what Nina always used to say." 

Lucie looked up. "Nina? Is that Nina Butterford?" 

"Yes. She was in the year above me at school. Did you know her?" 

"We went clubbing together sometimes." 

"I had the biggest crush on her." Clara sighed reminiscently. "When she got a boyfriend it smashed my heart in little bits. At least, that's how I felt then." 

"Was that Rob? She broke up with him. That was my fault, too, sort of." 

"What d'you mean, sort of?" 

"He bet us we wouldn't— Hang on." As they emerged into Brick Lane, Lucie knelt down. "Got a stone or something in my shoe." 

"Take as long as you like." Clara looked around, hoping that none of her pupils was in the vicinity; her appearance hardly matched the exemplary standard she hoped to set. "So what was your bet about?" 

There was no answer. Clara raised her voice, as a dustbin lorry rumbled past. "What was your bet about?" 

She looked around. Lucie was nowhere to be seen. 

"Lucie?" Clara whirled around wildly. The street was busy, but not crowded; if Lucie had been anywhere nearby, she'd have stood out instantly. "Lucie!" 

Clara's mobile phone bleeped. With shaking hands, she drew it out and read the message on its display. It seemed to take her several attempts to comprehend it properly. 

DON'T TELL THE POLICE — IF YOU WANT TO SEE HER ALIVE.


	4. Recitation

Clara hadn't told the police. Nor — though the message hadn't made any mention of other agencies — had she sought the assistance of her contacts at UNIT. Her first instinct, on arriving at her flat, had been to snatch up the other earring and head straight out without a moment's delay. In the end, balancing the claims of urgency and prudence, she'd left a brief, almost illegible note, giving the bare outline of her situation. Then, without further ado, she'd taken a bearing from the ring, and set off. 

This time the trail led to the south and east. Through Spitalfields the direction was clear enough, and in due course Clara emerged on the Whitechapel road. As she had done frequently since she set out, she looked down at the earring, cupping it in her hand to shade it from the light. The glowing dot was moving infinitesimally, as if tracking somebody at walking pace, not too far away. 

_Following the gleam_ , Clara couldn't help thinking, as she took the next left into a cul-de-sac. Unlike the bustling road she'd just left, this street was deserted and litter-strewn. The buildings in it were shuttered or boarded-up, and the only sign of life appeared to be a workmen's tent. She walked down the street, a vague sense of unease growing with every step she took away from help. She'd be easy meat here for any casual mugger— 

As that last thought crossed her mind, she was alongside the workmen's tent. She felt her wrist caught and held; a scented, well-manicured hand covered her mouth, and she was dragged into the tent before she had a chance to react. 

"You don't give up, do you?" Lady Christina's voice said quietly, from behind her. 

Clara shook her head, at least as much as she could. 

"I suggest you talk reasonably, then, or you'll find yourself handcuffed to the nearest lamp-post until I have time to deal with you properly." Lady Christina chuckled. "Or maybe you'd enjoy that; I'm afraid I don't keep up with the lower middle classes' tastes in entertainment. Now, are you going to behave in a reasonable manner?" 

Clara nodded. 

"Very well." Clara felt herself released, and turned to see Lady Christina behind her. Since Clara had seen her at the building site, she had changed into an exquisite, lilac-coloured trouser suit; just looking at her made Clara feel grubby and tomboyish. But Clara knew she had no time to worry about such matters of taste. 

"When you saw me before, there was a girl with me," she said. 

Lady Christina nodded. "Of somewhat remarkable appearance. A green-eyed monster, some might say." 

_She's trying to get a reaction,_ Clara thought, biting back the retort that came to her lips. Instead, she said "Not long afterwards, she disappeared. Did you do it? Or was it that man..." She cast her mind back. "Brook?" 

Lady Christina didn't answer directly. Instead, she gave Clara a long look, and said "What is your name?" 

"Clara Oswald." 

"And your profession?" 

"I'm a schoolteacher, if it makes the slightest difference to your ladyship." 

"Please, try to keep your temper." Lady Christina stroked Clara's cheek. "You're mixed up in a very dangerous game. It would help if you knew who the players were. I presume you have never heard of Richard Brook? Everyone who's anyone knows about Little Dickie." 

"Obviously I'm not anyone, then." 

"Since you're also unaware of my own small reputation, I'm inclined to agree." Lady Christina bent down, bringing her face onto a level with Clara's. "Dickie is the world's foremost consulting criminal. The Golden Eagle of crime. I'm sure you know what eagles will do when they see a beautiful, helpless lamb running across their path." She straightened up again. "I see you grow impatient. Very well. I haven't seen your interesting friend since we parted company at the construction site. And I'm certainly not in the habit of kidnapping young women for my amusement." 

"And yet, here I am," Clara pointed out. 

"Touché. Now, since I don't have your friend, it's likely that Dickie does. If so, she'll remain alive exactly as long as she's useful to him." She paused in thought. "I'm prepared to offer my assistance, if you agree to do me a favour in return. Though I warn you, success is by no means guaranteed, even so." 

Clara considered this. "What kind of favour?" 

"I couldn't possibly tell you until you agree. But it'll be intensely practical, and extremely dangerous." 

"Then you've talked me into it." 

Lady Christina gave her an appraising look. "You are not devoid of interest yourself, Clara Oswald," she said. "Very well. Please strip to your underwear." 

"You'd better not have been fibbing about this being practical," Clara said, obediently unbuttoning her blouse. 

"I never lie, except when I feel like it," Lady Christina said airily. "And you look so much better without those terrible bourgeois rags." She picked up a backpack that lay at her feet, and pulled out a bundle of black fabric. "I fear that since this was tailored for me, it will be somewhat too large for you. But we must do the best we can." 

Clara looked at the catsuit, then at Lady Christina, and slowly nodded. 

⁂

For the second time that day, Clara was in the Royal London Hospital. This time, though, she wasn't waiting in the reception area, or diligently cleaning her hands at the entrance to a ward. Following Lady Christina's hastily-issued directions, she was making her way down a series of bare, almost deserted staircases to a neglected corner of the hospital's basement. 

She hung around at the foot of the last staircase until she was sure nobody was around, then emerged into a dark, dusty corridor, lined with massive pipes that were hot to the touch. Doubtless if anyone did ask what she was doing there, dressed like a cat-burglar all of whose clothes were a couple of sizes too large, she'd be able to bluff her way through. But it would be considerably simpler to avoid the question in the first place. 

As Clara walked, she replayed Lady Christina's list of directions in her mind. Walk until you've passed five doors, take the next right, look for a grating. _And,_ she added on her own account, _try not to think someone might be waiting for you. Someone who'll see you for who you are, and shoot you on sight. They've got to think you **are** Lady Christina. Think like an aristocrat. You own this place. You've got every right to be here._

The grating, when Clara came to it, was unmistakeable. Carefully, trying not to make a noise, Clara unscrewed the wingnuts holding it in position, set it to one side, and clambered through. The frame was covered with fine black dust, in which Clara's limbs left pale marks as she squirmed through the narrow opening. 

The tunnel on the far side was pitch black, but Lady Christina had lent her a torch. Clara switched it on; she was standing on a short length of platform, overlooking a double-track railway. Each line had four rails, all of them rusty; this was obviously some abandoned branch of the Underground. Cautiously, Clara lowered herself to track level and, still following Lady Christina's instructions, turned to the left and tiptoed from sleeper to sleeper. Somewhere up ahead, she heard the rumble of a train, and felt a brief gust of cold air blowing in her face. 

As Clara approached the end of the tunnel, she found a newly-built brick wall blocking her progress. But, on her right, a short flight of steps led up to a doorway in the wall. Still trying to move quietly, she ascended the steps, arriving in a small chamber filled with incomprehensible, rusted equipment. To her right was another door, standing temptingly ajar. Her heart pounding, she pushed the door open, and walked through. 

She found herself in a long, open space. Functional fluorescent lamps illuminated the bulk of it, but left the walls and ceiling a maze of shadows. Sixteen feet or more overhead, soot-coated brick vaulting formed the roof, and the wall on the right rose up to meet it. On the left, the wall seemed newer, and only about eight feet high. It was interrupted halfway along its length by a double door. A little further away, cast-iron pillars painted black supported a latticework gantry overhead. It reminded Clara of a footbridge, and she realised that was what it probably was. This was, or had once been, an Underground station, and she was standing on one of its platforms. As if to confirm her deduction, she heard the roar of another train passing, immediately behind the wall to her left. 

"Stay there." 

It was Lucie's voice. As Clara froze, Lucie stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the platform. A red dot was resting dead-centre on her chest; Clara looked down, to see that there was a similar one on hers. Quite where the gunman or gunmen were, in this confusing space, she didn't know, but she certainly wasn't going to gamble her life on the dots being nothing more than laser pointers. 

"Lucie?" Clara asked. 

Lucie shook her head. "Brook." 

"You're saying what he tells you to?" 

Lucie nodded. "Lady Christina sent you," she recited. "My men saw you. In the tunnel. They weren't. Sure if you were her." 

"I sort of am," Clara said. "She sent me to speak for her. Like Lucie's speaking for you." 

"That woman's got no imagination. If she keeps ripping me off. There'll be trouble." Lucie paused briefly. "All right. Speak for her." 

Lady Christina must have been listening, because she began dictating in Clara's ear at once. "I came across an interesting necklace today," she said, pausing while Clara repeated the words. 

"That necklace is my property," Lucie said. 

"Property is theft," Christina replied, Clara faithfully repeating. "But I know how much you respect the concept. Enough to pay me, let's say, half a million for it." 

"You're in no position to bargain." 

"And you think you are? Self-belief was always your weak point, Dickie." 

As the negotiation went on, Clara found herself privately wishing that these two master criminals could just talk face to face and cut out the middle man. Except that in this case, 'cutting out' her and Lucie might be more permanent than she'd like. Lady Christina, she guessed, was trying everything she could to get under Brook's skin. But from the calm words that Lucie was relaying, Brook wasn't rising to the bait. 

"Two seventy-five and both women go free," Lucie said. It sounded as if the harsh, dusty air was getting to her; there was a hoarse note in her voice. "That's my final offer." 

"Then you've got a deal, Dickie. Pleasure doing business with you." 

"And you'll show me the merchandise first." 

There was a long pause. Then the voice in Clara's ear said "No. You show yourself first. Your _real_ self." 

Once Clara had repeated the words, the gap in conversation seemed to stretch out into eternity. On the other side of the brick wall, another train rumbled past. As the noise reached its height, the lights snapped out, leaving only the red sighting dots on Clara and Lucie. 

Clara stood, hardly daring to breathe, until the lights flickered back into life. There was a man standing beside Lucie: slender, dark-haired, pale. One hand was in his jacket pocket; the other held an automatic pistol. 

"It's your turn, my lady," he said. "And don't mess me around. My patience is running out." 

There was a thump, as if someone had jumped to the floor from a higher level, and Lady Christina stepped out of an alcove just below the footbridge, wearing a black jumpsuit identical to the one she'd lent Clara. She strolled forward, paying not the slightest attention to the gun in Brook's hand. 

"Here it is," she said, letting the silver chain dangle from her fingers. 

"Good. Good." Brook's gun remained firmly aimed at Lucie. "Now, Chrissie, I hear you've been studying my methods. So you'll be guessing what I've done with young Blondie here?" 

"There's an explosive vest under her jacket, I presume." 

"Got it in one. So if there's any funny business, you know what'll happen." 

Lady Christina raised her eyebrows. "Yes. She gets blown to bits. So do I. And so, I might point out, do you." 

"That depends. I've been doing a few experiments with shaped charges lately. My last one killed three people and didn't leave a scratch on me, and I was closer than all of them. Close enough I could've caught her head, if I'd wanted to." Brook, finally, turned his pistol in Lady Christina's direction. "Hand it over." 

"Let the women go first, and then we'll see." 

Brook shook his head sadly. "Chrissie, acushla, did you really think that was ever on the cards? They've seen me, so they're going to die. It's really that simple."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken a few liberties with the layout of the abandoned [St Mary's Underground station](http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-10612599), but nothing in comparison to the ones _Sherlock_ itself has taken with the Tube.


	5. Gymnastics

Clara stood motionless, hardly daring to breathe, as Lady Christina nonchalantly weighed the necklace in her hand. 

"Before I let you have this, there's something you ought to know." Lady Christina touched a stud on her wrist. "This." 

The red dot on Lucie's chest winked out. Clara risked a look down, to see that hers, too, had vanished. 

"You think you're so clever, don't you, Chrissie?" Brook's composure was still unruffled. He turned to Lucie. "You see what she did, don't you? Send in Little Miss Schoolteacher here to keep me talking while she went round socking my people over the head one by one. Or slipping them Mickey Finns. And propping up her laser toys where they were so you wouldn't notice. So now it's just the four of us." His voice hardened. "She still thinks she's got a chance of winning. Pity she's not in the right game." 

The lights went out again, there was a gasp from Lucie, and Clara suddenly found herself caught and held in an iron grip, the cold muzzle of a pistol against the back of her skull. 

"If you make one move I don't like, your friends'll be giblets," Brook's voice hissed in her ear. "Got that?" 

The lights came on again. She was hard up against the wall, one arm twisted painfully behind her back. She couldn't see, from her position, where Lucie or Lady Christina were. 

"You're all intelligent people," Brook's voice went on. "So you know the drill. Chrissie or Blondie tries anything, I shoot the schoolmarm. If the schoolmarm tries anything, Blondie goes up like it's November the Fifth. And now I'll choose the next game. We're in a station, so why don't we play trains?" 

Clara felt herself force-marched to where the brick wall was pierced by a double door. This close, she could see that it was covered with warning signs — electrocution, moving trains, emergency exit only. 

"Open it," Brook said, twisting her arm further by way of encouragement. 

With her free arm, Clara hesitantly reached for the handle on one of the doors, and pulled it. The door opened inwards; immediately beyond it, she could make out the gleam of twin tracks, and further away another wall blocking off what must be the other platform. 

Still with Brook's gun at the back of her head, Clara was pushed through the door, till she stood on the brink of the platform, looking down at the rails. 

"See," Brook went on. "If I shot her, people might ask questions. But if a trespasser gets into somewhere she shouldn't, and gets knocked down by a train... maybe she'll die, maybe she'll just end up as a vegetable. Depends just where I put her head. Either way, everyone'll say it's her fault, won't they? Better hurry up with that necklace, Chrissie. I think I can hear a train coming." 

Clara stared down at the track; there was little else she could do. 

"There, Chrissie, I knew you'd see sense," Brook said. "Give it to Blondie. Blondie, come over here. Let's have it." 

"Here you go, then," Lucie's voice said. "Catch!" 

Something silver flew through the air, past Brook and Clara, and landed on the track. There was a blinding flash of light, and for a moment Clara could see nothing except blue and violet blurs. She felt herself pushed savagely forward; at the same time, someone grabbed her ankle, and the combined movement tipped her off the edge of the platform onto the rails. 

Blinking furiously, Clara tried to climb to her feet, and managed only to get up on all fours. The lights had gone out once again, but a spinning column of luminous yellow smoke was boiling up from where the necklace — if it was the necklace — was lying. It looked as if it had come into contact with the live rail, and was greedily draining every last ampere of current from it. A wind was howling through the tunnel, blowing from all directions into the golden glow, as if it was a tornado. 

Above her, Clara could make out three figures, struggling on the brink of the platform. Brook was trying to bring his pistol to bear, but it flew out of his hand, described a graceful arc across the track, and was swallowed by the glowing vortex. Clara, too, felt the tug of it; she tried again to rise, nearly fell forward, and ended up clutching the nearest rail for dear life. Under her hands, the track was vibrating: she realised, with a stab of terror, that a train was on its way. And she didn't think that this time, there were two-dimensional aliens lurking nearby to transform it into a drawing on the wall at the last minute. 

"Clara!" Lucie's voice shouted. 

Clara looked up, to see Lucie leaning down over the edge of the platform. Behind her, Brook's savage face loomed; he seemed to be swinging some kind of improvised club, but the increasing force of the vortex was too much for him. Head over heels, he followed his gun through the air and hit the vortex feet-first, light blazing around him. His scream was audible even over the roaring of the wind. 

Lucie was still leaning down, holding out her hands. Clara caught hold of one, and felt it gripped by both of Lucie's. As the suction of the vortex lifted Clara off the ground, Lucie set her teeth and tugged. Another hand caught Clara's other arm. Now floating in midair, Clara realised that Lucie and Lady Christina must be bracing themselves against the doorway, trying to haul her in. Clara's arms were jangling with pain; it felt as if, at any moment, they might be pulled out altogether. Behind her, in the tunnel, she could hear the shriek of a whistle and the grinding squeal of brakes, as the driver of the approaching train tried to avoid the inevitable collision. 

Clara could have sworn that she was so close to the train, as it passed her, that she felt it brush against the soles of her boots. At almost the same time, the train must have struck the necklace lying on the track, knocking it clear of the live rail. The yellow glare winked out; the wave of pressure as the vortex disappeared sent Clara tumbling forwards to a painful landing on the concrete floor. Still with its brakes locked fully on, the train skidded away into the tunnel. 

"You OK?" Lucie's voice asked, her hands still tightly gripping Clara's. 

Clara groaned. "I can't see anything." 

"Know the feeling. Let's hope it's just 'cos the lights are out." 

"I've got a torch in my pocket." Clara tried to retrieve it, and yelped in pain. "My arm!" 

"Are you hurt?" 

"My arm's definitely not right. The torch is in my left pocket. Can you get it?" 

Clara felt Lucie's hands running over her body; then the torch snapped on, revealing Lucie's concerned face looking down at her. 

"We've got to get out of here," she said. "That driver's gonna want to know what he hit." 

"That took you long enough." It was Lady Christina's voice, coming from somewhere above them. "Sorry I can't stick around, but I'd rather not try to explain the situation to a lot of tedious little men in high-visibility jackets. After all, I'd be the prime suspect for bumping Dickie off, and who'd believe what really happened? Thanks for the entertainment, girls, if not the weird phenomena." 

Her soft footsteps retreated into the distance. 

"Don't let the door hit your arse on the way out," Lucie muttered. "Can you stand, Clara?" 

Clara tried, but her body seemed to prefer staying where it was. 

"I'll give you a—" Lucie broke off, as a thought struck her. "Hang on a moment. I wonder if I can see that necklace anywhere. Ought to be down by the tracks." 

"You'd be electrocuted!" 

"Not with the power off I won't." Lucie stuck her head through the doorway that led to the track, then disappeared through it. There was a brief sound of scuffling, then she climbed back through the door, looking pale in the torchlight. 

"Got it," she said. "But I could hear people coming. We need to get out right now." 

"You'll have to help me up, then," Clara said. 

Lucie pulled her to her feet. Together, they made for a steel staircase at the back of the platform. 

"This is the way I came in," Lucie explained. 

The memory of Lucie standing on the platform flooded back, and Clara realised she'd forgotten something very important. "The bomb!" 

"What about it?" 

"You're still wearing it, aren't you? Won't it explode if you try to take it off?" 

"Your Lady Christina disarmed it and got it off me. Or got it off me, at least. While Brook was gloating about tying you to the railway tracks and twirling his moustache." 

"He doesn't have a moustache." 

"You know what I mean." By now, they had reached another door, marked EMERGENCY EXIT. Lucie pushed it open, and they emerged into broad daylight. "I reckon that makes three times, at least." 

"Three times for what?" 

"That I've been a suicide bomber. You know what the best kind of suicide bomber is?" 

"The unsuccessful kind?" 

"Got it in one." Lucie looked up and down the street. "Hey, we're back at that hospital again. We might as well get your arm looked at while you're here." 

They darted across the road and into the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is, I hope, obvious that one should _never_ , as Lucie does in this chapter, assume the live rail is not live.


	6. Home Economics

"What did they say?" Lucie asked, as Clara emerged from the consulting room with her left arm in a sling. 

"It's just a sprain. Should be OK as long as I try not to use it for a couple of days." She looked around the waiting room. No-one else seemed to be paying them any particular attention. "What happened after Brook kidnapped you? And how did he manage that, anyway?" 

"They just picked me up and slung in me a car," Lucie said. "All done in seconds." 

"I didn't see anything." 

"You weren't looking. And that dustbin lorry was in the way, too." 

"You think that was on purpose?" Clara asked. 

"Probably. Anyway, he asked me all sorts of questions. Tried to scare me." There was a distant expression in Lucie's eyes. "I told him, the things I've seen, he was wasting his time. He talked a big game, but give me him over a Dalek any day." 

Clara shuddered. "I know what you mean." 

"Then he stuck his bomb on me and made me do the talking." 

"Where's the bomb now?" 

"Still down in the station. Unless that Christina woman picked it up on the way out. I don't trust her for a minute." 

"I'd rather she was after me than Brook," Clara said. 

"He won't come after you," Lucie said, with absolute certainty. 

Clara made a vague gesture with her free hand. "I'd like to be sure, that's all. I know he fell into the time distortion, but what if he falls out again next week?" 

"Won't do him much good if he does," Lucie said. "Not all of him's in there. I saw his head down by the track when I went to get the necklace." 

"Sorry you had to see that." 

"I've seen worse." 

"So've I. Let's not go there, OK?" 

Lucie nodded. "OK." 

"By the way," Clara said. "You know I said I thought I remembered your name?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I think I did meet you before. When we were really little. Do you remember a party with lots of kids and a bouncy castle?" 

Lucie gave her a hard stare. "Is your next question going to involve jelly?" 

"So you do remember." 

"It's not the sort of thing you forget. And no-one else forgets it either." Lucie abruptly stood. "I bet you it'll say 'Jelly Girl' on my grave. If there's enough bits of me left to have a grave." 

"Sorry." Clara, likewise, got to her feet. "Let's go home." 

⁂

Clara stared in disbelief at the tray in Lucie's hands. "You made those?" 

"Yeah," Lucie said, with an air of quiet triumph. "Chocolate soufflés." 

"Mine _never_ come out like that! How did you do it?" 

"Dunno. Just did what it said in the book." Lucie set one of the dishes down in front of Clara, and took her own seat on the other side of the table. "Cheer up. You can always hope I've mucked it up and it'll taste horrible." 

Cautiously, Clara conveyed a spoonful to her mouth. 

"What d'you think?" Lucie asked. 

"I don't know whether I ought to be jealous of you or propose on the spot." Clara pointed her spoon at Lucie for emphasis. "You're seriously telling me that was your first try at making soufflés?" 

"Seriously." 

"OK." Clara took another spoonful. "It's amazing. Are you some kind of cookery witch?" 

"Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble," Lucie said, making a gesture over her own half-eaten soufflé. 

Clara giggled, and allowed the conversation to lapse until they had finished eating. 

"That was superb," she said, pushing her empty bowl away. "And thanks for helping with the cooking and everything." 

"Didn't have anything else to do, did I? And you're supposed to be resting your arm." Lucie jumped to her feet. "Let's have that bowl and I'll get on with the washing up." 

"You're a glutton for punishment." 

"Make the most of it while it lasts. The moment your arm's out of that sling I'll be slobbing about in front of the telly while you do all the work. Actually, I'll do that anyway, once I've finished in the kitchen." 

"Make yourself at home. I'll finish off my marking in the bedroom." Clara grimaced. "I can't put off looking at Courtney's essay any longer." 

⁂

"Finished your marking?" Lucie asked. True to her prediction at dinner, she was indeed lounging in front of the television, giving perhaps a third of her attention to the exploits of half-a-dozen celebrities in the depths of the jungle. 

"Yes." Clara took her place on the sofa beside Lucie. "Did you give Courtney any help with that essay on _The Outsider_?" 

"Might've given her a few tips. Why?" 

"She says the protagonist's obviously a flesh-eating alien in disguise who wants to prey on Earth people — well, that's about typical for Courtney. But she's never gone to the trouble of finding relevant quotations to support her argument before. She almost had me convinced." Clara leaned back and briefly closed her eyes. "The Doctor says she's going to be President of the USA in thirty-odd years' time. I don't know who to be sorry for, her or them." 

"She's not that bad. The Doctor says she's all right, doesn't he?" 

"He says she'll be _president_. That's not quite the same thing." 

Lucie looked up at the TV set, her attention briefly distracted. "Hey, that fat bloke's going to fall off the log... there! Told you so! Who's he supposed to be, anyway?" 

"No idea." Clara had no intention of getting drawn into a discussion of a trashy TV programme she'd hitherto prided herself on not watching. "How can you be so casual about Courtney? If she hadn't stolen that necklace we wouldn't have almost got killed getting it back. By the way, what have you done with it now?" 

"I stuck it in the freezer. Middle drawer, at the back. The earrings, too. I still don't have a clue what they're all for." 

"We'll have to think of some more experiments tomorrow. Preferably not involving eggs." Clara, for almost the first time since Lucie had arrived in her classroom, had the leisure to think beyond what was immediately necessary. "That's if you're still going to be around, of course. If you can't put up with me for another moment and want to live somewhere else, I'll understand that." 

Lucie shook her head. "I don't think I could do better than staying with you. If you can stand me borrowing your clothes all the time." 

"As long as you don't borrow them only to tell me they're all boring and I should never have bought them." 

"Truth hurts. Mind you, if I got a job, I could buy some decent clothes. You'd borrow them too, I bet." 

"I could put you in touch with UNIT," Clara suggested. "I'm sure they could find something you could do. And they'd have facilities for studying the necklace." 

"That's an idea. If it's just hanging around in the fridge it might as well be in that de Souza woman's bank." 

"Not quite that bad. At least we've done the experiments and know what it's capable of. I don't think she cared at all what it is or what it can do, just as long as she got a kick out of stealing it. I did not take to her. Do you know, she called you a green-eyed monster?" 

"Which doth mock the soufflé it feeds on," Lucie said solemnly. 

Clara gave her an appraising glance. "That's your second Shakespeare quotation this evening. Did you ever meet him when you were with the Doctor?" 

"What, 'cos that's the only way an ignorant chav like me could remember anything he'd written?" 

"I didn't mean that!" Clara protested. "It's just... I'd have liked to have met him. I never got the chance." She brightened up. "I did get my first choice. Robin Hood." 

"What was he like?" 

"Exactly like he is in all the stories. The Doctor couldn't believe it. He kept saying Robin Hood was just a legend." Clara gave Lucie another look. "Maybe there's something in the legend of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, too." 

"Don't know that one," Lucie admitted. "What with being an ignorant chav and all." 

"The Green Knight comes to Camelot and says anyone can strike him one blow with a sword. But if they do, they have to come to his castle and let him do the same to them. Sir Gawain cuts his head off, and he just picks it up and rides off." Clara put her finger on one of the green patches on Lucie's arm. "Maybe that's how he did it. That symbiotic stuff." 

"You'd better not try cutting my head off to find out. So what happens when Sir Gawain goes to the knight's castle? Does he kill him?" 

"No," Clara said slowly. "They end up kissing each other instead." 

"Oh, yeah?" Lucie turned to look at Clara. "I thought so." 

"What do you mean, you thought so?" 

"Why you told me that story. You're giving me your please-snog-me look again." 

"I was aiming more for come-hither." 

"Same difference." Lucie turned back to the television, apparently suddenly captivated by an advertisement for engine oil. "Look, there's no point trying fancy lovey-dovey stuff on me. I'm just a chav with a big gob." 

"Stop calling yourself that!" Clara protested. "You're not 'just' anything. You're clever and brave and beautiful and you saved my life." 

"Suit yourself." Lucie's attention was, to all appearances, still fixed on the television. For some minutes, neither spoke. 

"Lucie," Clara said presently, feeling that she couldn't put up with another second of reality TV. "When you were kidnapped, you were telling me about a bet you had. With Nina and her boyfriend." 

"That's right. He bet us we wouldn't— Well, we did." 

"Wouldn't do what?" 

Lucie, reluctantly, smiled. "I promised not to say." 

"That's not helpful in the least." 

"But I didn't promise not to do it again." Lucie's smile was broader. "Specially if I'm doing it to a teacher who wants to slum it with a bit of rough like me and doesn't know what she's letting herself in for. Look at what happened with Nina." 

"And what did happen with Nina?" Clara murmured, gazing into the emerald depths of Lucie's eyes. 

"The next day she said I'd made her realise she was gay. So she dropped Rob and hooked up with a girl instead. That's how good I am. You have been warned, Clara Oswald." 

"Duly noted." Clara slid her good arm around Lucie's shoulders. "Do your worst, Canon Lucianus." 

The television continued faithfully to relay its broadcast. But for the rest of the evening, neither of the room's occupants, their attention entirely focused on each other, even looked at it.


End file.
